by Miriam Boersma

to the girl in line at the dining hall
with a red skirt and a white top
and a black pouch on her belt
who laughed with her friend
over something I didn't hear

to the man on the streets of paris
in a straw hat, sitting on a stool
playing the accordion for change
to the tuxedo cat on his lap
curled up and, somehow, asleep

to the kid I saw at a theme park
in tears at the heat or the lines
who took the toy I offered
and put down their frustration
in favor of the shiny and new

to the people I met in a hallway
and the strangers in checkout lines
the ones I will never see again
your faces will show in my dreams
but I will not know that it's you